Tag Archives: poem

Born Shy

I live on the wrong glassy frosted frame side
Of a Norman Rockwell doctor visit painting
And the museum security staff roping it off

Island Of Misfit Kids

Dead baby sparrows and rotting deer
carcasses never bothered me before
Now I want to crawl between my knees
like they taught us when the bomb dropped
I just want to sew up this split atom

The Pendulum

As above
So below

As is love
So is hell

As is ritual
So is chaos

As is truth
So is masked

As is beauty
So is plastic

No. 13

They are onto us so let’s hide away
Inside hidden fox-holed motel floors
Intentionally mislabeled as room 14’s
We can take respite inside conch shells
And spiraling sunflower inflorescence

Election Day

Every four years there’s this sporting event
Preceded by campaign promises and vows of roses
We choose our bread, circuses and the president
We mark our ballots while holding our noses

The Insane

I saw Jesus singing today
His salvation shivering
In the cold and the chill
His tent propped across
A rusty, red shopping cart
I feel his fixed, coiled eyes
Like a hypnotizing cobra
Daring me to look his way

Paper Tigers

I keep my paper tigers close to me
Anxiously pacing, dogged and untamed
Like the very last satyr in the world of man
Crumpled wads, all bark and neutered maws
Gilded divertissements that tiptoe around
My real demons and the elephant in my room
Like my fear of getting chained to comfortable
When all I dream about is running as fast as I can

Runaway Trains

There’s this divide
Thirty seconds wide
Trillions of commercials long
Most everyone I have ever met
Want to save the planet
While filling up with gas
Or vote to save the environment
But refuse to leave their cars

Something Precious

Eventually the sum of infinity catches up to my panting Achilles
The wolf closes, encircles, halving Zeno’s paradox striking distance
Something precious like a final breath betwixt time’s pendent jaws
My single bleated prayer offered up as a lamb just before his pounce

Places That I Have Never Been

I’ve never been to Disneyland
But I know what it’s like to be disappointed
Mickey is just some dude

Poets Anonymous

Hi, my name is Cara and I am a poemoholic
It’s only been 24 hours since my last sonnet
And it’s been 13 days since the last time I’ve
used the words coruscant and tattered in a line

A Collector of Highs

I’m a collector of highs
Like a nano journalist
Clung to the necks of crows
I am murders of knowledge
That comes only by scavenging
Through trash and old cigarettes
To find a shiny thing worth holding
I am the art of the cuttlefish

My Slaughter

My love is an abattoir
And if my heart was glass
Nobody would ever come in
If you are brave enough to look
You’d see the carnage of my intention
Splattered across bedroom floors

Weltschmerz

My inside pulled out heart
Is a 300 gram autobiography
Broken, bleeding and revealing
Systolic wars and diastolic peace
Beats between nausea and hope
Scrawled in my lost arrhythmia
Like the cadence of a rainstorm

The Philosopher’s Stone

He was born in a small town
A cave to be exact
Birthed in scrawled glyphics that created a club then a bat
Forged some fire later the match
Centuries tatter later
Found work as a compass
Navigating maps
Eventually went to college
Studied biology minored in math
Got straight A’s in physics
Graduated cum laude
Took his first real job
As an atomic bomb
He was let go

A Galaxy Apart

There is this entire galaxy in me
Hidden, vast, nebulus, and expanding
Somedays I feel like I am going to burst
And puke my stars out onto the sidewalk
Then everyone will see what dark matter
And pulsars look like viscid and drowning
In a litre of orange juice, oatmeal and flax

Summer Air

Clinquant melodies of scattering leaves and seed Soughing plaintively between sunburned hollows Like perfumed tiny tourists from a passing charabanc Their lilacs’ scent of sweet sillage lingers for a puff Leaving painted imaginary doodles of agitated air behind Foregathering in the wakes of napes, and marooned nooks Of plumped and ripened orange bursting splurt lilyContinue reading “Summer Air”

Reclamation

I once loved the city and its gleaming promise
Of slicked back, urbane haute cultured praxis
Circus sideshows, embonpoint and spectacle
Where cinereous clad clouds hover like buzzards